Evening Come, Evening Go
by caprelloidea
Summary: A collection of explicit one shots set during or after Season 6. Thus far: Spoilers for 6x01.
1. Evening Come, Evening Go

Summary: Instigated by this post. Emma and Killian enjoy an evening together in their home.

Notes: As requested by captain-kitten on tumblr, here is some smutty, spoiler-based sexy times.

Warnings: Smut, language

* * *

Leaning idly against the white, wooden archway that leads into Granny's, Emma picks away at the young, tender vines that curl up the slats. Here in the humidity – the sort that clings to the heels of summer, and on into fall – her jacket lies abandoned over the railing, the sleeves of her sweater pushed up to her elbows. She's sure she looks the picture of innocence out here on the patio, turning her head now and again to listen to the chatter of the katydids. Really though, fingers pulling harshly at the greenery, she's remembering – and quite vividly – the way it felt to be carried by Killian Jones just earlier the very same day. The way his hook had caught at the stitching at her hem, the way he'd apologized afterwards, a red tinge to his cheeks. The way he'd opened his mouth against hers, the way she'd just about _kicked_ the archway she now fiddles with straight over, how his _tongue_ –

"What are you thinking about, eh, Swan?"

Emma tries not to startle, she really does, but the railing is rickety enough as it is – swaying under her weight when she leans even harder against it – and so she very nearly _tumbles_ into his arms, much to his delight.

"Nothing too scandalous, I hope," he says, leaning over her to get her jacket.

"If it _was_ scandalous, then that's your fault."

He doesn't deny, only smiles and holds her jacket up in invitation. She would turn him down, given the fact that her hair curls at her temples at the mercy of the moisture in the air, but the look on his face is so genuine, she slips into it anyway.

"So what were you doing in there anyway?" she says.

Killian shrugs, and offers her his hook. She takes it, and tugs. _This_ brings a smile to his face as well, and Emma's certain she's not seen him smile this often and this brightly since his past self had tried to charm her out of her dress.

"Sometimes one has to be the architect of their own quiet moments," he answers, at length, ambling alongside her, his arm flush against hers.

"Okay but what the hell does _that_ mean?"

"It means we're going home. It means we're going to enjoy some time alone. It _means_ we're going to shutter the blinds and lie on the floor for no other reason than to do it."

Emma imagines it, perhaps _more_ vividly than she'd just imagined his tongue dragging over her teeth. Her fingers tighten around his hook. There's a part of her that wants to tell him _no_ , as much as she wants it. That she doesn't have time for this. But when she looks at him, and thinks about time, she remembers the way that it felt to hold his favorite, filigreed flask in her hand, and to lay it on his grave.

"Okay," she says.

They walk in silence for several minutes, her hand and his hook swinging between them. The streetlights above flicker to life, attracting all sort of things that make Killian wrinkle his nose when they fly by his face. She laughs, and again, he _smiles_ , but they don't speak, content to listen to the rustle of his leather against hers, of the smack of their shoes against the concrete. Of the way it feels to look up at the stars with no agenda.

It doesn't occur to her Emma until they arrive that Killian had called this place _home_.

They stand, together, on the tilted, broken sidewalk just outside the house she'd once taken for her own. Already, in the span of a few days, the warm, late summer sun and cool, evening rain showers have the grass growing in tufts out of the cracks. Killian eyes them with irritation, though he does make a wry comment about the enviable tenacity of weeds, all while he looks pointedly down at her.

"Are you calling me a weed?" she says.

Killian laughs, though he doesn't reply. He moves around behind her, until she can feel his hook against her thigh, chest pushing gently into her back with breath that he takes. Warm, slight air stirs the hair curling down her back and over her shoulder. He turns his head from one side to the other, and she mirrors, leaning back until his cheek presses against her head.

"It really is a beautiful house," she says, quietly.

Emma reaches down, until she can feel the cool, metal curve of his hook against the tips of her fingers. It warms in the palm of her hand, grounds her while she gazes up at the arches and gables. The paint on the steps is worn, she knows, the northeastern corner sinks down into the sandy soil. There's a terrible draft in the attic, and the glass is warbled, thicker at the bottom than at the top. Even so, it feels –

"Like it's haunted, or something."

Emma can very nearly _hear_ him frown.

"We don't have to stay here, darling," he says. "I can take you home – "

"Hey."

Emma doesn't turn, though she does lean hard against his chest, turning until her nose is just about flush with his.

"Pretty sure I _am_ home. We just need to like…exorcise the ghosts."

"Oh?" Killian looks wary still, though his eyes twinkle, even more brilliant beneath the warm light of the streetlamp, and in the faint shades of blue that hover yet on the horizon. "And how do you suggest we do that?"

She scoffs. "I _know_ you want me to say that we have to have sex all over it, but I'm _not_ going to."

Killian bites his lip, and standing so close to him, Emma can hear his tongue licking against the back of his teeth. She rolls her eyes, even while heat gathers in the pit of her stomach.

"Come on," she says. To her delight, he seems surprised when her hand clamps down on his wrist, and she pulls him up down the sidewalk and up the stairs. She can _hear_ his feet fumbling for purchase, though she doesn't comment, too busy barreling through the door before she can second guess herself, before she can think about her own deception, her _desperation_ –

"Emma," Killian says. He pauses, and she turns to look at him. Here in the house – the fading light all shut out but for that which spills into the transoms – he looks softer than ever before. Or maybe it's the expression on his face, or the gentle way he beckons her out of the foyer. "Why don't we go to the living room, eh, love?"

"You mean where we – "

"Where we are _now_ ," he says. Perhaps harsher than he intended, for he looks sheepish when he draws her to the center of the room, between the table of the couch. He looks down at their feet, and digs into the skin behind his ear.

" _Please_ , Emma." For a moment, he shuffles, from one foot to the other, before he looks back into her eyes, and repeats, softly, "Where we are right now."

Emma nods, and reaches up to scratch at the nape of his neck. His eyelids droop, eyelashes casting long, silvery shadows over his cheeks. She studies him, and he seems content to stand still, to hum when she presses into the subtle arch of his spine. Her hands wander, first over his jacket, then underneath, where even through his vest and his shirt, she can feel the heat of his body radiating outward. When she can bare it no longer, she stands on the tips of her toes, and means to kiss the contemplative tilt to his lips. But then –

"Goddammit," she says, resting her chin on his shoulder so she can gaze over at the painting above the hearth. "I fucking _hate_ that painting."

Killian laughs, softly. "You've a mouth on you tonight, darling."

"I'll set it on fire," Emma says, matter-of-fact. She leans back on her heels, and looks up at him. There's mirth in his eyes, and it fuels the gentle tirade. "We're gonna have a housewarming party and it's gonna be a bonfire. And then we'll take stupid family photos and put them in cheap frames and hang them _everywhere_. And there's not going to be fruit in bowls for no Goddamn _reason_. New house rule. If there's a bowl out of the cabinet, there better either be popcorn or cereal in it."

Killian hums. "Or soup."

"Uh, yeah…and soup."

"Must all ice cream be consumed in cones?"

Emma pauses. She can feel the heat in her face, throwing a mini-tantrum in front of him about something as stupid as a _painting_ , _God._

"I'm sorry – "

"I suppose we can make milkshakes, if you'd prefer."

For several moments, they're quiet. Emma wonders if he's laughing at her. But the expression on his face is gentle and understanding. _Patient_. All things she knows he'd claim he's incapable of.

"Don't apologize, Emma," he says, so soft she can hardly hear it over the buzz of a car passing down the street. "Fate took your dream and twisted it into something ugly. If we're banned the use of decorative fruit bowls, of all things, I'd say it's a small price to pay. I'd rather your heart wasn't uneasy in your own home."

"In _our_ home," she answers.

Killian smiles. "Aye."

For a minute, or longer perhaps – she can hardly tell, time such a muted concept in the wake of travelling realms and staging coups in the Underworld – Emma only looks at him. _All_ over him, until her eyes rest on his lips, which tug into a smile when her hands settle back on her neck. And then, as she's wanted to since he set her down on the ground many hours ago, she kisses him. And here, where there's no chance of an audience, she can kiss him as long and as loud as she wants, hands roaming over every part of his body that she can reach. His back first, where chords of muscle tense and relax as he goes on an exploration of his own, though more or less restricted to her waist and her hair. His waist next, where she can wriggle her fingers under his belt. Then around to his front, where –

" _Gods_." He pulls away from her lips with a wet, reluctant sort of sound, grunting when the back of her hand brushes over his zipper. "Tell me, Swan. May I make love to you?"

Emma frowns. "That seems like bad luck. Remember that time you died?" She frowns harder still. "The _first_ time, that is. Henry cockblocked the hell out of us. And before that, in the woods – "

"Aye, and at Granny's."

" – and in that alley."

Killian smiles, despite the residual frustration. "It's wonder we ever find any release at all."

She sighs, though she pulls him down by the collar of his jacket, and says, straight into his mouth, "I feel like every time I try to put my hand down your pants, some villain materializes out of thin air."

He laughs. "You don't have to put your hand down my pants, as you say, in order to come."

"Well then how are _you_ coming, because…"

Because _what_ , she thinks, but the thought, whatever it was, slides quickly and neatly out of her mind. Killian's expression darkens, his hand reaching around to tug at the zipper on his jeans. He doesn't pull it down, merely runs his fingers down the seam, his nail catching on the divots, humming deep in his throat.

Emma swallows. "Oh God."

"Perhaps I won't," he says, voice more gravel than fluid, rumbling pleasantly over her ears. He takes one step forward, and then another, shoes deathly quiet against the wooden floors. Pressing harder against the front of his jeans, he looks down at her, eyes drowning in pitch and cast over with lust. Not _just_ that, but the sort of overwhelming fondness that makes it difficult to look him in the eye. The earnest love that he wears on his sleeves, so bright and beautiful that it makes her lips tremble.

"Although…" Killian trails off, though he doesn't stop his advance, pressing against the small of her back until his hand is pressed against both of them, knuckles brushing between her legs. "…perhaps I will."

Emma hums, reaching up to bury her fingers in his hair, nails catching at the tufts that wave wildly at the back of his skull. She presses and pulls, until her lips drag over his jawline, then up over his cheek. She pulls further still, standing on the tips of her toes until she can kiss his forehead, brushing his hair out of the way so she can breathe out over the skin. And though, moments ago, he was confident – and though his hand still rests between their legs – Emma can feel the shudder in his sigh. His hook draws up her side, over her shoulder until the curve presses ever so gently at the line of her jaw.

"I love you, Emma," he says, her lips now drawing a similar path over the other side of his face, hands now tugging at his ears. "I _love_ you."

"I – "

She means to answer him, but he pulls his hand free, fingers making a riot of her ponytail so that he can pull her mouth to his. It's hardly a moment before he wraps his arms around her, lifting her much as he did in the daylight. Though, with careful maneuvering, he sets her down on the couch, his legs on either side of hers. All at once, she feels enveloped. In the way the he feels, and in the way that he smells. In the press of his hand at her waist, the sharp sound his hook makes when it scratches against her jacket.

"Wait, wait," she says, his lips drawing patterns over her jaw, and down her neck. "There's got to be something we're forgetting."

"It's all taken care of," he says, breath hot and warm and wet against her ear.

"But Henry – "

"Is at Regina's, love."

"Oh, right," she says. Although, when he presses lower and harder, hand molding over her breasts, Emma can't quite remember what she's talking about. Still, she repeats, "That's right."

Killian hums, and lets gravity do his work for him, pulling gently at his knees until his pelvis is flush with hers. She's warm all over. _He's_ warm all over, and she finds herself tugging at the sleeve of his jacket. Not to disrobe him, but to coax him further and further still, until the charms that hang around his neck spill out of his shirt.

"Ow," Emma says, though she smiles, tangling her fingers through the silver chains. The sword and the skull scrape dully against her skin, and she finds herself both aroused and amused by the sheer amount of crap that he keeps around his neck.

"You never did tell me why you wear this," she says, even as he curls his pinky around the swooping neck of her sweater. He pulls, revealing the jut of her collarbone.

"It's enchanted," he says, leaning forward until his lips brush faintly over her skin, teeth nudging at the bone.

"It's _enchanted_?"

"Aye," he answers, absently, still mouthing at her chest. "It's rather a shrunken sword, can be enlarged, and all that."

At her incredulous look, he elaborates, "One can never be too prepared."

Emma groans, in part because of the way that he licks at the hollow of her throat as he rocks gently against her. " _Killian_. You're gonna jinx us. What if a villain runs in here and ruins everything _right now_."

"We quite literally have a dungeon in the basement, Swan, we can simply _jail_ the wretch and force them to listen to the sounds of our lovemaking until we see fit to send them back from whence they came."

"Kinky."

Killian huffs, though he doesn't reply. Emma can tell he'd been holding back, his arms quivering with the effort. But with the sort of noise she often hears when she touches herself and thinks of him, he allows his weight in full to bear down on her, and immediately begins rocking back and forth. His cock presses against her clit, even through more layers than she cares to count. Emma follows his lead, soon enough grabbing a handful of his shirt, pushing until he angles the way that she wants.

"Fuck," she says, absent-minded. She pushes and pulls, and although she can feel the heat in the tips of her fingers, she just _knows_ –

"At this rate, _no_ one will be coming."

Killian grunts, his face twisted beneath the weight of the gentle pleasure that builds between them. She considers letting it go, allowing it to go for as long as they can stand it, before she shucks his clothes, pushes him on the floor, and fucks him in front of that _stupid_ ugly painting.

But then, when the faintest crest of pleasure abates at the lack of proper fiction, Emma reaches down for the waistline of his jeans. She fiddles with the button and the belt, the sound of metal against metal muted in the echo of the way that he breathes in her ear, in her hair, directly in her mouth when his lips nudge against hers.

"Don't tempt fate, darling," he laughs. The tips of her fingers sink down beneath the fabric, wriggling pulling until shirt falls free. Killian looks as though he means to scold her – a telling flare in his nostrils – but the words get caught in a jumble in his throat when she scratches over his belly. He squirms, laughter echoing throughout the austere living room, and presses his hips into hers, head tucked in the crook of her neck, arresting the motion of her hand.

"Relax," she says, writhing until she can yank her hand free. She pushes on his chest, and he leans back, just far enough that she can reach for the zipper of his pants. "I'm just – "

The sound of the zipper sets the shadows back into his eyes, the fury back into his breath, until his hips are thrusting faintly, arrhythmically, against her hand.

"No tickling," he says, breathless, watching with what she's sure is _amusement_ as she wrestles with his clothing, yanking hard at his belt.

" _There_ ," she says, hooking her thumb in the loops of his jeans, pulling until they're bunched just beneath his ass.

Now, she reasons, there are only _three_ layers between them, his cock hard and wanting beneath the thin fabric of his underwear. She pushes at his shoulder, and pulls at his brace, until he's positioned to her satisfaction, hips still held apart. Though, before she lets him fall, she looks up at him, the determination she can feel on her face softening into a smile,

"Does _this_ count as tempting fate?" she says.

"You're Emma Swan," he answers, eyes twinkling even as he moves restlessly above her. "If she does something you dislike, I'm sure you'll change her mind."

She laughs, though it's strangled. "Damn straight."

Emma grabs at his shoulders then, yanking until he's flush against her. Killian groans when his hips fall and his cock – two layers of clothing and all – presses against her clit. She's heard the sound before, namely when her lips are wrapped around him, when his fingers are inside her, when he pushes into her. But the tension – rising and rising, higher and higher the longer their reunion goes unconsummated – releases with that first brush of his flesh against hers, and his head falls once more into her shoulder, the fine hairs curling about his ears tickling her cheeks.

"Bloody," he says, taking a moment to breathe, to readjust so that his cock is squarely between her legs. "Fucking _hell_."

Emma lets him rest – she can feel the heat despite the clothing, the restless turn of the muscles of his back beneath the tips of her fingers – and spreads her legs, one heel hooking over the back of the couch, the other curling over his leg. After several moments, Killian leans back on his elbows. She expects him to start a rhythm then, to have felt the obvious wetness between her thighs, fabric sliding easily between them, and to _do_ something about it. But he only looks down at her. _Stares_ , really, eyes jumping first from one eye, then to the other. Without looking away, he fumbles for her hand. He savors the moment, playing with her fingers before he brings her palm to his lips. He kisses her there, then down to her wrist, tongue reaching out to taste the salt of her sweat, and of the humid, summer, seaside air gathering on her skin.

"I often don't believe it," Killian says. She means to ask him – _what_ doesn't he believe – but this is when he chooses to set the pace. His hips push forward, then circle back, cock sliding first over her entrance, then over her clit. Harder some passes than others, then softer and softer still.

"What," she says, breathing the word out between them. She throws one arm over his back, fingers bunching up in the leather of his jacket. The other remains tangled with her own, pressing it hard into the couch for balance. But also, she suspects, for grounding.

"That I'm here," Killian answers, moving faster. He shuffles on his knees, just that bit further back, releases her hand so that he can lean up on his elbow and look down at her. "That he brought me _back_. That I could deserve it, that I could deserve you, that I _have_ you – "

"Killian."

His face falls, and where his rhythm falters, hers picks up, heel pressing down into his back until he's rutting hard against her, and she against him, the desperation in their bodies belying the melancholy that descends in the room.

" _Killian_ ," she repeats. "Don't be an idiot. I _love_ you. Mom loves you. Dad _totally_ loves you. _Everyone_ loves you. And if you don't…"

Emma pauses, can feel the pressure rising, the rush of blood down to her belly. Warmth rushes in her fingertips. She feels weightless and weighted all at once, made all the more poignant by the way he studies her, as though she were a trembling work of art, held precious in his arms.

"…if you _don't_ believe that, well then too fucking bad, because we _do_."

Killian seems torn for a long moment – between the desire that flushes in his face, and the propensity to be self-defeating – but the former wins out. He smiles, brilliantly, dimples digging deep into his cheeks.

"I'd be remiss to fight against you, Swan."

To which she replies, "Good."

From then, they speak only in expressions, in the way his breath quickens against her ear, in the little noises he makes when she bids him to move faster, hands curling through his hair. When the pace grows faster still – and when his sighs turn to garbles, high in pitch and desperation – Emma pushes on his chest until he leans back, so she can look down, and watch the way they meet, over and over and _over_. Killian follows, gauging her expression before looking down and angling even higher, cock unerringly dragging hard and heavy against her. A few thrusts more, and she can feel her orgasm building deep inside her, in the palms of her hands, and in the base of her spine. She tells him, wordlessly, her nails scratching up under his jacket and down his back.

"I've got you, darling," he says, quiet and strangled. A few more thrusts push her further still, until the blood pooling down in her pelvis rushes outward, waves and waves climbing and receding while she rambles nonsense into his ear. Killian is quick to follow, and though she can't feel him like she suddenly wishes she could, she _can_ see the look on his face, mouth falling slack, eyelashes fluttering. Perhaps ironically, he's startlingly boyish when he comes, the worry that always seems to etch into the crinkles by his eyes falling away, if only for as long as he ruts wildly against her.

"Perhaps I should have reconsidered the clothing," he says, after a minute or two, shifting uncomfortably above her.

"Don't be such a baby," Emma says, reaching down to tug his pants back up, redoing the belt and zipping him up. "I'm sure there's underwear around here somewhere. _Or_ you can just go without."

Killian looks comically aghast, even as he kisses at her flushed cheeks, rising so his weight isn't crushing her. "And bare myself to this bloody metal contraption you call a _zipper_? I think not."

Emma laughs, tugging on the collar of his jacket until his mouth is once more on hers. She kisses him deep and long, the feeling swelling in her chest – so high and so beautiful – it almost feels as though the room is _vibrating_ …

"Is the room _vibrating_ , Swan?" Killian says, into her mouth.

It takes her a moment to right herself, but when she does, Killian similarly breaks away, turning to look as the decorative goblet on the table quivers in place. A long-suffering look passes between them before they leap to their feet, and rush out the door – legs and clothes still a bit off kilter. When they look up, something that could only be described as an _airship_ passes above, off towards the forest beyond. Emma can _hear_ Killian huff at the sight.

"Shit," she says, glancing over at him.

"Aye."

"Can't fit _that_ in the basement."

Killian laughs, though it's nearly swallowed in the roar of the machine overhead. He reaches out for her hand, and quite without thinking, her fingers tangle easily with her own.

"Come, love, there's villainy afoot."

Emma gives herself _five_ seconds to whine internally, to think of just how many times he could have made her come with an entire evening to themselves, how many bowls of popcorn she could have made, how much she could have strewed over the bedsheets while trying to toss it directly into his mouth.

Then, when those five seconds have passed, she looks to Killian and says –

"Okay, let's go."

Killian nods, though he stops her before she can run off, pressing one last, lingering kiss to her lips.

"Have I told you that I love you today?"

Emma smiles. "Like three times."

His expression softens, his hair a wild mess atop his head, curls falling over his forehead and into his eyes. He looks terribly earnest when he tells her yet again.

"I love you, Emma."

Even more so when she answers.

"Love you too."


	2. Red Leather Jacket

Summary: Killian _totally_ has a thing for that red leather jacket.

Notes: I can't stop writing about the clip, send help.

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Emma laughs the first time he says it, though more so out of glee than out of realization.

It isn't until a handful of weeks later – when the stories have been told and what's wrong has been set back to right – that it really dawns, here on their living room floor, while he scrambles to remove his shoes, tossing them somewhere over his shoulder.

Killian Jones has totally got a _thing_ for the red leather jacket.

"No, no, no," he says, his own leather jacket dangling from one arm, one sock on and the other caught around the tip of his hook. When he shuffles close, she can smell the wood smoke on his skin, the chilly reminder that fall will soon give way to winter. Emma is torn between jumping his bones and yanking off the rest of his clothes, and laughing hysterically while he squirms out of his pants, all while tugging at the sleeves of her jacket.

"No," he repeats, breathless. " _Please_. Just leave it."

Emma gives him a _look_ , though she still can't help but to smile when he nearly shakes the sock straight off the end of his brace and into the fire. She removes the other herself, and makes quick work of his belt too, yanking them off with quick succession, cringing when they land on the coffee table with a heavy _clank_.

"I can magic away the scuff marks later."

Killian hums, deep and loud and long, as he tears away at the buttons on his shirt and vest. "Darling, you could chop the bloody thing up to bits and I wouldn't give a damn."

"You say that now, but just yesterday you had a cow because Dad didn't use a coaster for his coffee."

Shucking the last of his clothing, Killian scoffs, even as he smiles, turning his singular attention back towards her own jacket, gentle fingers reaching out to tug at the zipper.

"I did not have a _cow_."

"Did too."

He doesn't reply, merely helps her tug off her pants and underwear. Emma shivers, even with her sweater and jacket still tucked high on her neck, at which point Killian pauses and leans over to pull a warm, cotton blanket from the wooden chest that sits by the fireplace. He taps at her hips with his hook, looking faintly sheepish when she jumps at the chill. She lifts her hips all the same, sighing with relief when the blanket slips between her ass and the floor.

"There you are, Swan," he says, much softer than his fingers, which prod insistently at the sweater beneath her jacket. "Now if only there were a way to remove these sweaters without removing the jacket."

Emma laughs. "Chill out, it'll take like _five_ seconds."

Planting her feet on the floor – those too cushioned from the hardwood by the blanket – she peels off her jacket, followed by two thin sweaters and a shirt. Killian quirks a brow, reaching over to help her pull the jacket back over her shoulders. It's not until they're sitting, she more or less cross legged and he on his knees, that she starts to feel a little ridiculous, the smooth material of her jacket feeling strange against her spine, against her shoulder blades, places it typically never touches.

"How stupid do I look?" she says, picking idly at a loose thread by the pocket.

Killian frowns, shuffling further still until his knees nudge against hers. The charms around his neck glint in the firelight, his cock rests heavy and swollen between his legs, his hair something of a mess from the way she'd kissed him up against the front door before they'd even managed to stumble inside.

"Emma," he says, seriously. "You look _beautiful_. You're _always_ beautiful."

She smiles, wanly. "Yeah?"

He nods, expression almost childlike, and her smile grows until it's digging painfully into her cheeks. Emma leans forward, very nearly straddling him while she kisses him – long, deep, and wet sorts of kisses, the noises he makes vibrating against her tongue. With as much grace as she can muster at a time like this, she maneuvers him around until it's _he_ who lies beneath her. She tugs at the blanket so it smushes –

"Stop using that word, Swan, it's made up."

"Make me."

– underneath him, two convenient piles of cloth where her knees ought to go.

"Hook on or off?" she says, panting as she grinds down on him. Killian doesn't seem to comprehend her at first, too focused on the way her wet flesh grinds against him.

"Whatever you want," he answers, absently, planting his feet firmly behind her. " _Anything_ you want."

"On," she says. " Duh."

Killian laughs, soft and strangled. Though she has a mind to simply _fuck_ him, while the fire still burns hot and loud beside them, he rises on his elbows so that he can kiss her and _kiss_ her, fingers down between her legs, rubbing soft circles against her clit, bidding she rise so he can slip them inside.

"No, no," she says, even as she rocks against his hand. "I'm ready _now_."

He hesitates. "You sure about that, love?"

"Ugh, God, _yes_."

Leaning back on the floor, reaching down to position himself, Emma can tell he tries to keep his eyes open when she sinks down. All the same, he tucks his hook into one jacket pocket, fingers curling around the other, following the rise and fall of her hips as she rocks above him. The faster she goes, the harder he paws at it, eyes jumping to hers, then back down to the fastenings, then to her breasts as they sway with the motion of her body. His hand and his hook roam _everywhere_ and she'd be amused were it not for the orgasm that builds in her blood.

"You really do…" she chokes out, but it's caught in her release, then in his as he pulses within her. The heat that builds and rushes outward is met by the warmth of the fire, even as it starts to dwindle. She's always been one to get cold easily, and before she can whine about it, Killian turns her over, settling half atop her body, tugging at the blanket until he's made something of cocoon out of his body and of the cotton.

"Really do what, love?" he says, against her lips, still mouthing at her jaw, at the tip of her nose, rubbing his cheek against hers until she giggles.

"You really do love that jacket, don't you?" she says.

He grins. "Aye. And you my hook."

"Yep."

"Well then we make quite a pair, don't we."

Emma only hums, wriggling until his head rests on her chest, the lazy tune he hums rattling over her ribcage. She knows she shouldn't fall asleep, that they'll regret it when they wake up with the world's worst cricks in their necks and shoulder an hour from now. But with his heartbeat steady against her belly, and her jacket warmer and warmer still in their combined body heat, she drifts away with the gentle dying of the fire.


	3. Ephemeral

Requested by seethelovelyintheworld on tumblr, a fic in which "every time they have sex, they both have orgasms right away." Spoilers for 6x01.

* * *

It's just on the cusp of midnight when Killian Jones finds himself walking down a quiet street in the center of town. The nights are growing longer, the sun colder, stiff breezes wafting in from the sea. Though he'd be content to turn his collar up against the weather, and allow his blood to warm his fingertips, he wears a long shirt with a high neck beneath his vest at Emma's request. He'd also sunk his teeth into the thick, knitted wrist of a black glove, wriggling it down onto his fingers, and savoring the look on her face. It had been admittedly far _less_ alluring when –

" _Where'd you get that glove?" she says, reaching out to skim the palm of her hand over his hip. "And can I have the other one because oh my_ God, _these are soft."_

" _This glove lacks a partner, Swan, much like the hand it protects."_

" _Then where – "_

 _He flushes, then, and covers with a kiss to the swell of her cheek. "From Madame Lucas."_

– but all the same, he'd not left the house that morning without several promising kisses to her lips.

Now, though, and much to his displeasure, Killian finds that his _promises_ are more or less in vain. At every turn, a new story appears, itching to be told. Some of them speaking to the darker corners of his past. The distance between he and the rest of the bloody time seems to grow, and even when he's _not_ wandering down the streets after the stroke of midnight, he finds himself often alone, if not in reality, at least in spirit.

That is, at least, until Emma, shouldering hidden burdens of her own, tells him to –

" _Fucking quit it, Killian, you know I love you. That's not who you are anymore, I've said that I don't even know how many times now."_

He appreciates the sentiment, of course, and the curses that seem to drip more readily from her tongue these days, but as much as he wishes he could _show_ her how he loves her, could make due on the way her pushes her down onto the furniture, or the way she shoves him against any given wall, it seems an impossibility. Interrupted at every turn. This is why he currently trudges back towards their home, filth smearing over his knees and water squelching down in the bottom of his shoes. The lot of them had been scattered, likely a part of Hyde's terrible plan, and accosted by various characters that had since been languishing in an untold realm. A message from Swan on his talking phone assures him that she and her family are alright. He'd met her with a reassuring reply, and proceeded onwards.

It occurs to him, as he squints away from the overbright light of the electric streetlamps, that Swan will be home alone. There are powerful charms on the Queen's home, ones which no longer surround their own – not since the darkness jumped back into the crocodile's bones – and the lot of them had agreed that Henry would be much safer there. Though he's exhausted beyond much reason, Killian concedes that they'll at least be able to fuck downstairs without fear of an incident. This – and the stars that shine overhead, the darkness brought about by the new moon bringing the constellations to life – spur him on, until he's turning onto his own block.

"Oh my God," Emma says, nearly startling him into gate. He turns to find her waiting on steps, chin in her hands, elbows resting lazily on her knees. Her hair is falling out of the tie, there appears to be a tear in her favorite sweater, and her face is similarly dusted with a mix of sweat and grime. Even so –

"You look beautiful, Emma," Killian says, hurriedly climbing up the steps to draw her into his arms.

She laughs, gruffly, weariness weighing down the husk in her voice. "Is this foreplay? Because that's what it feels like."

He hums. "Whether you'd like me to make love to you or not, I'm being quite serious."

Her expression softens, and she gently pries his fingers from her shoulder, turning to let them both into the house. Like before, she pulls them back towards the couch, hanging onto his lapels as she falls.

"You're beautiful too," she says, drawing her hand through his hair and down the lines of his back. Killian arches into her touch, just as his hips press down. And _unlike_ the last time, he manages to rid her of her boots, her fitted, flexible pants quick to follow. Emma helps him in turn, gracelessly squirming beneath him until he's similarly bare from the waist down. She takes him in hand, and the pleasure that builds strikes him so very suddenly, he nearly comes right then.

"Wait, wait," he says, gently pulling her hands off his cock. He shimmies down the couch, until his face is between her legs. "You first."

"Yeah – "

Yeah _okay_ , is what Killian suspects she meant to say, but when his mouth closes over her, it's lost in the unintelligible sounds she makes. He licks and sucks and brings his hand up to join, intending to push inside when, in as short a time as he figured _he'd_ last, she comes, clenching around only the very tip of his middle finger.

"Holy _shit_ ," Emma says, panting up towards the ceiling.

"Aye," he answers, crawling up until his face is level with hers. He studies her, and she studies him in return. Her expression is unreadable. That is, at least, until she grins brightly up at him, subdued, tired laughter pouring out of her mouth.

"Guess that's what happens when literally everyone on _Earth_ spends every second cockblocking us."

Killian hums in acknowledgement, unfamiliar with the term, but guessing at its meaning.

"Which, speaking of…" Emma writhes underneath him until her ankles are locked over his back, his cock coming to rest squarely between her legs, her arousal coating the length of him. He immediately begins to rock above her, even as he protests –

"You're tired, love, I can go without."

"But _I_ can't. I want to feel you come."

He hesitates, but at her gentle insistence that it's indeed what she wants, he pushes inside.

"One minute and forty-five," she says, winded, when he comes.

"Pardon?" he answers, just as wrecked.

"That's how long it took you. Or thereabouts. I lost count when you made that sound."

Killian smiles. "What sound?"

"I am _not_ mimicking it again, I thought Dad was gonna die when he walked in the room."

He opens his mouth to reply, to tell reassure her that it certainly wasn't any _worse_ than the time he'd caught them with his hook looped through her belt, and his hand working its way down the front of her jeans. But then, seemingly in protest to the ease with which they settle into quiet comfort, Emma's talking phone begins to ring.

"Speak of the devil," she says. Killian pulls out, then, and sets to pulling her clothes back over her legs. He pauses, pulling her sock back over her foot when she throws her head back and groans.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," Emma says. He only hears a subtle murmuring in reply, but whatever it is, it's clearly not good.

"There's some kind shenanigans going on down at the town line."

Killian quirks a brow. "Shenanigans?"

"Ugh, _Killian_."

He bites back his smile. "It can't wait until morning?"

"Apparently not."

Pulling his own clothing back on, Killian allows the unjustness of it all sink in. As much as he can try to ease her with smiles and orgasms and silly jokes, there appears to be nothing he can do to stop the onslaught on the town aside from stand at her side. And so, resolving to do just that, he smooths his hand over his hair before he offers her his hand.

"Let's have at it, then."

* * *

It continues much like this.

The crises continue, they fall into one another's arms, and work themselves to orgasm in a handful of minutes, as spent as it seems they'll ever be before the cycle repeats itself.

A few days later, with an afternoon of fruitless investigation behind them, and an evening of _more_ ahead, Emma grabs his hook and drags him to the library, directing a half-baked excuse over her shoulder at her parents. A handful of minutes later, and they're in a dark and hidden corner, her jacket still pulled tight over her shoulders, and his undershirt and glove in place just as they were a few nights before, he on his knees and her half-clothed against the wall. When he reaches up to push her sweater over her stomach, Emma pulls the glove off his fingers, throwing it carelessly on the floor.

"Hey now, Swan," he says, playfully admonishing. "Much love and care went into that garment."

Emma laughs, the deep and wanting sort of noise that falls straight to his cock. He brings his fingers up between her legs, and draws lightly over her clit. Her hands latch onto his hair, pulling him closer still.

"I bet Granny knit you a cute little hat too," she says, leaning into his touch. " _Don't lie_."

"She did _not_." Killian pauses, then, intent on searching for the sensitive bit of skin down and a bit to the left of her bellybutton. Much to his frustration, Emma tugs on his hair, intent on pulling him away, and although he can feel the restlessness in her body – the way that she rocks gently towards his face – she seems determined _not_ to relent.

"She merely suggested it," he grumbles, at length.

"I _knew_ it."

"Do you wish to _come_ , Swan, or shall we simply laugh the moment away?"

"Honestly, I'm kinda torn."

Emma changes her mind, of course, when his teeth do indeed find the spot on her belly. She laughs, but with intent, pushing at his shoulders and tugging at the hair on the nape of his neck until his mouth latches onto the inside of her thigh. He licks and he bites, for as long as she'll allow, until her nails dig into his shoulder blades, and he turns to suck gently at her clit.

"I should set a timer," she says, voice pitched high, breath short and quick.

Killian hums, and Emma jolts. He presses the flat of his tongue to her entrance, then slides up, pressing hard and long until, with four more passes, and another calculated, sucking kiss to her clit, she comes, slouching so far sideways that he has to catch her before she falls. With hardly enough time to recover, she pulls him up, and allows him to hitch her leg over his hip, leaning down and back until he can slide inside.

"Remember," she says, into his mouth as he begins to thrust in earnest. "We have to meet my parents in like fifteen minutes."

"Oh good," he says, already feeling the pleasure begin to pool into the pit of his stomach. "What shall we do with the extra thirteen minutes?"

Emma laughs, and indeed, it's not a few minutes later before he's come, and their clothing goes back into place.

"I can't believe we just had sex in the _library_ ," she says. "In front of all these _books_."

"They're not sentient, Swan, I'm sure they'll be fine."

"Still."

Killian laughs, though he dutifully helps her in her search for relevant materials, and they return as they promised, fifteen minutes later, carrying tomes that may very well help them with their quest. And of course, none the wiser that they've one more orgasm each beneath their belts.

* * *

This goes on for quite some time. And although, in days past, Killian may have been a bit embarrassed by his own lack of stamina, there exists a brutal honesty between, the very same he hasn't experienced since Milah used to ramble prolifically – and rather adorably, for that matter – about everything that he did to her body, and everything she _wished_ he would do. It's warm, and it's pleasant, and it's everything he never thought he'd have again.

Which is why, despite the fear and desperation that seems to cling to their heels, he finds himself following happily along as Emma leads them around behind and outbuilding at Zelena's house, after having lost the trail of the Evil Queen. Frustrated, lacking for something to chase, Emma walks with determined gait, grass crunching beneath her feet until she apparently finds what she's looking for. Judging by the look in her eye, he has an eye idea as to what…

"I'm gonna lean up against the wall like this," Emma says, pausing to find a spot on the shed wall where the notches don't dig relentlessly into her cheek. "And you're gonna fuck me from behind."

Killian quirks a brow. "We're out of doors, Swan, is this a good idea?"

He says this, of course, as he fiddles clumsily with his belt, hardly bothering to pull the zipper down before he slips his hand inside to close over himself. The stroke of his hand, and the thought of her warmth and her wetness brings him to readiness in mere seconds. Judging by the way Emma squirms, hands still planted against the shed as she watches with pitch in her eyes, she's nearly as ready as he.

"We'll find out if it's a good idea in a second," she says. Then, a sheepish look on her face, fingers clenching against the structure before them when she adds, "I mean, unless you don't _want_ to, which is totally fine – "

"Nonsense, Emma."

Killian takes exactly three steps before her behind is cradles between his hips. The pressure of pliant flesh against his own, even despite the fabric between them, is some measure of relief. Not quite so arousing, though, as the sound she makes when he works in concert with her to push her jeans down to her knees. The air is chilly, and the threat of discovery looms overhead. Even so, when he presses his fingers between her legs, he finds he was more than a little right, the wetness there leading a slippery path to her entrance. He presses inside with one, then two fingers, urging her to spread her legs as much as she can.

"How many time do you think you can come, eh, Swan?"

Hand setting a steady rhythm inside her body, palm grazing against her clit, erection grinding firmly against her behind, Killian very nearly misses her reply, buried as he is in the haze of last that surrounds them.

"Twice," she answers. " _Maybe_ three times, but like, don't quote me on it."

He smiles. "As you wish."

Pushing his jeans just far enough to release himself, Killian pushes on the small of her back, until she's angled just far enough that he can push inside. Though he tries to remain quiet, and tries to remain calm, it's not long until the push of her hips beckons him into a frenzy, fucking her hard and fast against the shed, his own cries echoing hers. Emma comes twice in the span of a few minutes, as it were, before he follows, head thrown back, groaning up towards the sky, where dark, heavy clouds gather on the horizon.

"Ugh," Emma protests, when he slips out, and refastens his jeans. "I'm gonna have to change later."

When he's put to rights, Killian brushes his fingers up the sharp line of her jaw, pulling gently at her ear, which never fails to make her smiles.

"I'm sorry, Emma," he says. "I suppose ought to keep a handkerchief."

As she finishes tugging her own clothes back into place, she scoffs. "Ew."

He bites at his lips, laughter bubbling up in his chest. "That a no?"

Emma shakes her head, and grabs hold of his hand, pulling them both back towards town. She's curiously silent the rest of the way, at least until they trudge up the stairs to her parent's loft to report the complete and utter lack of new information. This is, of course, when she chooses to turn back to him, hand pressed against the door.

"Maybe you should just come in my mouth from now on," she says, much to his detriment, before they're ushered inside, warmth stirring once more straight down to the tips of his toes.

* * *

Zelena finds them the very next day, having a quick meal between crises at Granny's.

"If you and your _paramour_ are going to fuck on my property," she says, hissing so vehemently that a fair bit of spittle gathers on her lips, "the least you can do is try to be a _little_ quiet."

Killian expects Emma to flush, but she merely shoves yet another onion ring in its entirety into her mouth, and leads harder into his side, hand resting just on the inside of his thigh.

"I have _no_ idea what you're talking about," Emma answers, food a jumbled mess in her mouth.

The witch, in all her foregone wickedness, thoroughly disgusted by his love's display, seems to forget herself, and storms off, air stirring in her wake.

Emma laughs. " _Storms_ off. Are you punning on purpose or was that an accident?"

Killian smiles. "You'll never know."

* * *

"Seriously, though," Emma says, not thirty minutes later. Apparently – and to no one's surprise – yet another story untold wreaks havoc through the town. The dwarves, of course, had been the first to sniff it out, very nearly ransacking the diner in their rush to scream incoherently about it. Emma's parents had taken the lead, announcing a strategizing session in their loft in twenty minutes. What with the chaos, it had taken five for the customers to clear out.

Another five to find an unused closet in the back.

"Were you punning on purpose?" Emma says this with her hands on his cock. His jeans, as it were, are somewhere near his knees, hook buried in the wall behind her, his own fingers rubbing wide circles over her clit. Killian often loses his rhythm, torn as he is between focusing singularly on her pleasure, and on rutting into the tight circle she's made out of her hands. Even so, he's hardly dipped his fingers inside, callouses at the base of his palm joining the fray, before she's coming in the circle of his arms. She hardly gives herself a moment to breathe before she wrenches his hand out of her pants, turns him so his back is pressed against the wall, and sinks to her knees.

"I told you, Swan, you'll never know," is, of course, what he means to say.

"Oh, fuck," is what he _does_ say. Her mouth replaces her hands, warm and wet and sucking just over the tip. Emma pulls at his hips, encouraging him to rock gently inward, where her tongue glides over the vein underneath. She hums, and he makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, the sort she's told him she likes to think of on the nights they spend apart.

"Emma, darling, you're bloody marvelous," again is replaced by an even more guttural –

"Oh, _fuck_."

Killian would find his lack of eloquence alarming considering his usual mode, but then again, hardly a minute longer and he's coming in her mouth. His knees would give way, were it not for Emma's body pressed against his, one hand braced against his belly while she tugs his pants up to his waist.

"You give me too much credit," he answers, at last. "That's far too subtle a pun for my taste."

"Really?" she says, carefully tucking his cock back into his undergarments before she fiddles with the zipper. "Tornadoes, _storms_ , the wizard of Oz – "

"You're mistaking your sense of humor for mine, darling," he says, smiling when she rolls her eyes.

"Come on," she says, wrapping her fingers around the curve of his hook. "We're gonna be late."

He sighs theatrically, then, to which Emma smiles, wearily dragging him along.

* * *

Emma very nearly sobs in relief when the last of the stories have been told, the men and women split by the serum have once again been made whole, and the burden that rests on her shoulders is vanquished by magics they hardly understand. In fact, when she rightly begs off a celebration at Granny's –

"Like, no offence Mom, but there's no fucking way. We're going home."

– she _does_ cry. There in the quiet of their home, where the beautiful, cavernous ceilings are starting to become a familiar sight. Where more and more shoes often end up piled by the door, more and more jackets on the hooks in the foyer. Dishes in the sink, rugs out of place, furniture with stains hidden beneath pillows that appear to serve no other purpose.

 _We're_ home _,_ Killian thinks, while he holds her in his arms, there on the very same couch he'd nearly fucked her on weeks ago, tears of her relief gathering in the dip of his collarbone.

"This is so _stupid_ ," she says, voice weak and trembling. "I don't even know why I'm crying."

"Don't be so hard on yourself, love," he says, softly, hand threading through the strands of her hair. "I put on a similar display not long after I returned from the dead. You didn't think _that_ was stupid."

"That's different. You _died_."

Killian cringes, realizing that perhaps it wasn't the wisest reassurance he could have offered. But then, she leans back, tears still staining her cheeks, a tentative smile tugging at her lips. Smiling as softly as he can manage in return, he wipes them away with the pad of his thumb.

"Besides," she says, "have you _seen_ your face when you cry? It's like I can hear Sarah McLachlan writing a new song in the distance."

"Pardon?"

Emma laughs to herself, and though it's watery, it's certainly an improvement. "Nevermind. I just…"

Killian never finds what it is that she _just_ , for she descends easily into silence. Her tears dry out, and she seems content to simply look at him, to bury her fingers in his hair, to flop about in his lap until her knees rest on either side of his. Fingers wriggling beneath her sweater until he can soothe her with a steady, wandering pressure to her spine, he gazes back in turn. He feels as though they could fall asleep like this, sinking further into the cushions, a comfortable haze settling between them. That is, until –

"How long after crying all over your shirt is it appropriate for me to put my hands down your pants?"

He laughs. Laughs and laughs, until she does _indeed_ remove his jeans, or as far as need be, making love to him there on the couch, no evil lingering elsewhere.

* * *

It's another week or so before the fervor melts out of their blood, if only for the fact that they've found more quiet moments than they expected. It's late on a Sunday night, Henry having opted to stay at Regina's house, when he and Emma finds themselves alone in their home once more. Only, with the most recent catastrophe behind them, and nothing ahead, they find themselves able to enjoy the luxury of removing all of their clothing, piece by piece.

"I don't think I've been naked in this bed _once_ ," Emma says. Though her sex glistens, and his cock is hard and heavy against his stomach, they lie flat on their backs atop the covers. Winter has since descended, and so the windows are shut tight, centuries old glass creaking against the push of the wind. The radiators by the walls tremble and sputter, pleasant warmth spilling into the air. It's calm, and it's quiet, and though lust still tingles in his fingertips, he remains still.

"I don't think I have either," he says, conversationally, which is perhaps ridiculous given their state of undress. But given the way her fingers thread through his own, the way her hair tickles at his shoulders, the contentment that rolls off of her in waves, Killian can't be bothered to care.

"That's stupid."

"Aye."

"No clothes allowed in the bed, _ever_."

"I've not known you to be one to sleep without socks, Swan."

Emma hums, and Killian turns to watch her draw her upper lip between her teeth.

"Okay," she says. "Well, then, _I'm_ the only one who gets to wear clothes."

He smiles. "That's hardly fair."

Emma laughs, then, and it's so carefree, he can't help but to turn over, to cover her body with his and to kiss the corners of her mouth, her nose, her cheeks. Her laughter dies soon after, the desire simmering between them sparking into a flame, held even higher as the radiators spit another bout of warmth into the room, a fine sweat gathering over his back. For quite while – a time that, for once, they're not required to _count_ – he simply kisses her, and she kisses him, his cock resting over the wetness between her thighs, a subtle rocking motion building the pressure deep in his stomach. It's not until she digs at the base of his spine that he pushes in, gently, slowly, as far as he can go.

"Are you gonna move anytime soon?" Emma says, quietly.

Killian shakes his head, and rests his cheek against hers.

"I don't intend to, no."

He can feel her smile in the stretch of her skin over her face. "Good."

In the end, after she's come thrice –

" _Thrice_ , oh my God."

"You're only jealous of my diction, Swan."

– he follows, spilling over deep inside. No hurry to leave, no clothing to find, no villains to vanquish. Killian merely rests his head over her heart, and listens to it beat as calmly as he's ever heard, sleepy breath flowing in and out of her lungs.

"Don't let anybody wake me up before ten," she says.

"Aye."

"And don't let anybody stop me from eating so many donuts that I get sick."

He laughs, softly. "Of course."

"Don't let me forget to wash the sheets either, because now they're all gross."

"No thanks to me, eh, Swan?"

Emma only hums in reply, and proceeds to ramble herself into sleep, a series of increasingly absurd requests falling from her lips. She falls into sleep at last with her fingers tangled in his hair, and with her breath washing over his skin. And he, as ever, follows, warmth in his skin, contentment settling softly into his bones.


	4. Catharsis

Summary: "I find that old wounds tend to open up. Often at random. There's nothing we can do but…" "But smash shit we don't like?"

Warnings: Smut, language, angry smashing of inanimate objects

Notes: Inspired by the scene in S1 when Emma destroys the toaster in MM's apartment. Further inspired by screaming sessions with phiralovesloki and swankkat on tumblr. Set vaguely in S6, but no spoilers beyond 6x01.

* * *

The microwave started it.

Or so this is what Emma says to Killian when he walks through the front door, stopping so very quickly in his tracks that the door smacks him in the shoulder. He takes in the scene around him, expression unreadable. She wonders if, perhaps, his relative unfamiliarity with modern technology will confuse the situation. Then again, Killian Jones is an incredibly intelligent man, and no matter the era, there's nothing that can rightly explain the shattered glass and gnarled circuitry.

"What's this, then?" he says, tone just as unreadable as his face.

"The microwave started it."

Killian only hums. Hums and hums, circling the mess like a vulture, tighter and tighter until he's standing toe to toe with her, leaning until every breath that he draws pushes the upturned collar of his shirt against a loose bit of hair hanging over her shoulder. He licks his lips, and Emma wonders if he means to kiss her. But he only watches, _still_ infuriatingly closed off. Like he's studying her. So she studies him in return, though she finds herself quickly distracted by the hair that curls just beneath his neck…

"Are you alright, Swan?"

 _Sure_ is the answer that comes to mind. But then, in the process of folding her arms over her chest, Emma leans back on her heels, the threaded edge of a bent screw digging into her tender flesh. She yelps, and grabs a hold of Killian's elbow. And there's something about it, just _something_ about the way that his face falls, gentle suspicion melting into concern, that sets her bottom lip trembling.

"No," she answers, quietly.

Killian nods, and leans down, just far enough to wrap his arms around her waist, and lift her out of the radius of destruction.

"Radius of destruction," Killian repeats, shaking his head. "And just what is it that has your mind so uneasy?"

Emma sniffs, and tangles the hair by his ears around her fingers. At this height – the tips of her toes just barely grazing his ankles – she can watch as the light in the ceiling fan above washes warmly over his face. From here, his eyes look a little softer, his eyelashes casting soft and pliant shadows over the swell of his cheeks. For as long as he'll allow, anyway, Emma ignores him, the pleading expression on his face, and merely touches him, prodding first at a stray tuft of hair, the curl that seems always determined to escape from his sideburns. It's natural, then, to trace around the shell of his ear, lingering at the point before landing once more at the nape of his neck. She scratches down his spine, as far as she can reach, before pulling back to his face, poking at his jaw until he smiles, and dimples appear beneath the palms of her hands.

"You're determined to distract me, eh, Swan?"

"Honestly, I think I'm doing a better job of distracting myself."

Much to her dismay – although realistically, of course, he can't hold her forever – Killian sets her on her own two feet. Before she can muster up the indignation to huff, he falls haphazardly into the nearest chair, and pulls her down onto his lap.

"Tell, me, would you, love?" he asks, softly, when she's settled above him. Inevitably, her hands find their way back into his hair, tugging on the loose ends by his collar.

"We really ought to snip these off."

" _Emma_."

"Fine, _fine_. It's just…"

Killian, for all his usual restless energy, the sort that bubbles beneath the surface and erupts into anger when provoked, sits perfectly still beneath her. Then again, he's always been soft with her, sharp edges wrapped in leather and fluff.

"Just what?" he says, the high, gentle pitch in his voice settled warmly in her belly. Warmer still when his hook presses into her thigh.

"I just came in here, and honestly, Killian, I am _so_ fucking tired of looking at this place the way that it is. All this stupid, overpriced crap that I would _never_ have bought in my right mind. And that's the point! I _wasn't_ in my right mind, neither of us were." Killian cringes at that, though he listens carefully as she goes on. "I mean, seriously, how many BTU's does one microwave need? I don't need to be able to forge _steel_ or whatever."

"BTU's?"

Emma waves her hands dismissively, perhaps with more gusto that she should, very nearly knocking him in the nose. She looks sheepish at that, though he waves her off in return when tries to apologize for her behavior.

"Okay," he says, matter-of-fact. "We need something with less…BTU's. What else?"

She snorts. "Are you _really_ going to indulge this? You come home, see me breaking stuff into bits, and you're just going to sit there and pretend it didn't happen?"

Easing her off his lap, Killian gets to his feet, and turns to survey the mess. When she considers how neatly he arranges their jackets and shoes, how everything is in its proper place by the end of the day, Emma feels even more shamefaced. Though, when she moves to clean up, Killian takes her by the elbow.

"You did indeed do quite a number on the poor microwave," he agrees. "But I'm not going to _indulge_ it, as you say. You can do as you wish. In fact, I'll do you one better."

Emma laughs when he stops through the wreckage, glass and bent steel creaking beneath his shoes. It's subdued, weighed as it _still_ is by the memories that this place evokes. But despite everything that's occurred, she can't bring herself to part with it. Just with the things that don't seem to fit. The couch, of course, she'll keep, as many times as she's fucked him on it, and the rug too, if only because those things are _ridiculously_ overpriced…and she's fucked him on _that_ too. She keeps an inventory, stepping around what appears to be the vent of the ruined appliance as she thinks of everything that needs to go, including the drab color on the walls.

"She was a good microwave," Killian says, solemnly, behind her. Emma doesn't turn to face him, only considers whether she hates the painting above the fireplace enough to take it down.

"Much-loved and little used, her days were cut short," he continues.

"Wait a second," Emma says, turning to watch him stand amongst the mess, head downturned, hand and hook held behind his back. "Are you _eulogizing_ the microwave."

He smiles. "Everyone deserves a proper funeral, Swan."

" _Ugh_. Don't say funeral. Everything is terrible."

Killian looks sheepish, then, and steps gingerly into her space. Though she can tell it's exaggerated – shadows often rim his own eyes, these days, although they're fewer and farther between the longer the past stretches behind them – his eyebrows wiggle, and he flashes her a proper grin, bright and beautiful and shining down at her. She can't help but to smile in return, just as wide. Again, with the darkness falling outside, and the dim light hanging just behind him, the hairs by his neck catch her attention the longer he remains silent, for the moment seemingly content just to look at her.

"I _told_ you I'd do you one better," he says.

Emma laughs. "You haven't done anything besides stand there and look pretty."

" _Aside_ from that. Look here."

She looks down, and spots the blender. The base is caught in the curve of his hook, which is perhaps the most absurd thing she's ever seen. Hysteria builds in her chest, and so she _says_ –

"That's the most absurd thing I've ever seen."

Killian hums, and brings the blender up to his face. So close, in fact, that his eyes cross when he gives it careful inspection. It's a fancier model, that's for sure. There are at least two dozen buttons on the base, as if _On_ and _Off_ aren't enough. The glass is thick and warbled, and the blades nestled down at the bottom mean serious business, judging by the way the waning light glints off the tapered metal.

"Pardon me, darling," he says, as though it's just occurring to him, "but what the bloody hell is this even _for_?"

"You've been here how long and you've not seen a _blender_?"

He sniffs. "I find I've spent the great majority of my time here in pursuit, _being_ pursued, or being _dead_. I've seen them before but not had the chance to give them a try, as it were."

"Well, _first_ off, I'm gonna go ahead and make a _no more death jokes_ rule for tonight. Second, wait here."

Killian looks as though he's about to protest, though he keeps quiet as she skitters down the hall. As she recalls, down at the end, there's a nook of a closet, dusty and lit by a bare lightbulb. The sort of thing that would have scared her as a child. The sort of thing that, if she's being honest, _still_ scares her now. She's quick, then, to grab what she wants and practically run back to him, tossing the hammer and screwdriver on the floor, where they land in a clatter amongst the shards already scattered across the gleaming, finished wood.

"Tools?" Killian says, wicked gleam in his eye.

Emma smiles, and nods. "Tools."

* * *

The microwave may have started it –

"The microwave didn't bloody start it, Swan, she was merely a young lady, cut down in her prime."

"Would you _stop_ fake mourning the appliances?"

– but it's the _blender_ that bears the brunt. Emma had considered making a milkshake or two in it before sending it to electronics hell. But she simply _cannot_ be bothered. Especially when the damn thing turns out to be twice as stubborn as the microwave, resisting even the pounding of the hammer.

"What, is this made of _diamonds_?" Emma huffs, tossing the hammer over her shoulder.

Killian hums, and ignores her outburst. "Honestly, Swan, what is it _for_?"

He shifts in place, where they sit on the floor. They've since turned on the lights in the kitchen. As he moves, they catch in his hook, pooling down in the tip. Emma chews on her bottom lip, rests her chin in her hands, and tries to look as charming as possible when she says –

"Do you trust me?"

He laughs. "You don't need to bribe _me_ with that look on your face, Swan, I'm quite aware of how beautiful you are." Killian subdues, then, and reaches out to drag his fingers over her knee. "Of _course_ I trust you. Must you even ask?"

Perhaps because of the expression on his voice, or the careful touch of his hand, or the way his voice stresses on the word _course_ , Emma's reminded of the reason _why_ she blew up at the appliances in the first place. Sometimes everything just _sucks_. It's _unfair_.

"What's not fair?" Killian says. She startles, and looks up at him. He's since, somehow, scooted closer to her. They're shoeless, now, and all of the sharper debris has been pushed to the side. His foot nudges against hers, and there's something heart achingly domestic about it. About the fact that one of his socks is black and the other navy, about how each of his socks' mates are on _her_ feet, rolled down by her ankles, too big and just right, all at once.

"Everything," Emma answers, at length.

"Aye."

"You don't think I'm being dramatic?"

Killian sighs. "I find that old wounds tend to open up. Often at random. There's nothing we can do but…"

"But smash shit we don't like?"

He smiles. "Aye."

Emma looks up at him, and he down at her. For several long, comfortable minutes, they look at one another, her hands travelling up his chest only to lose themselves in his hair once more. Killian follows suit, tugging the band that holds her ponytail up until her hair spills freely down her back.

"Okay," she says, when his eyes grow darker, and she begins to imagine what Henry will say if he catches them going at it downstairs _again_. "Give me your hook."

"Pardon?"

"Your hook," she repeats, smiling. "That's what that whole _trust_ conversation was about."

"Sorry, love, I was momentarily distracted."

Emma hums, and reaches down to click his hook out of place. She grabs the indestructible blender, then, and plugs it in a random outlet by the baseboards. When she drops the hook inside, Killian laughs, guffaws really, leans down, apparently to start smashing all the buttons.

"Wait, _no_ ," she says, and pulls him around behind a wall. "Just peek around the corner so we don't _die_."

Killian complies, and with a flick of her wrist, the stupid thing turns on. The clamp on the lid holds everything in its respective place, but that doesn't stop it from flopping around on the floor like a fish, making the most unholy grinding noise that she's ever heard. It doesn't take long for it to crack, the gnarled blades at the bottom turning and whining, a faint smell of burning plastic permeating the room.

"This is the by far the stupidest thing I've ever done," Emma says, ducking around the corner and yanking the cord out of the wall with her foot.

"You'll recall that you were once almost engaged to a flying monkey."

"God _dammit_ , Killian, can't we go _one week_ without talking about that?"

He laughs. "I was merely trying to put this all in perspective."

"Okay, _fine_ , but the toaster is next."

"As you wish."

* * *

The thing about taking her anger out on inanimate objects, Emma finds, is that it doesn't do much to quell it. As a matter of fact, in some ways, the frustration only builds. Although she _does_ want to get rid of the things that she hates, the things that she feels makes this house feel unwelcoming and austere, _breaking_ them isn't working. It _never_ works. She gets the sense that Killian knows that, that he's had his fair share of outbursts. She can see it, often when _they_ fight, when his teeth peek out from between his lips and his voice is more gravel than water. He'll clench his fist and flare his nostrils, raise his voice and seem to grow in stature, toss things over his shoulder like he can't stand the sight of them. In three hundred years, she wonders if it's ever helped _him_.

"It hasn't," he tells her, when she asks. Still, he stabs merrily away at some twisted bit of plastic. "And I imagine it won't in the future, either."

"Then _why_ are you doing this with me?"

He drops the tool in his hand – a retractable knife he'd pulled out of some mysterious pocket of his jacket – and slides over to her. _Slides_ , of course, because the floors are disconcertingly clean, and he's yet to discard his socks like he usually does.

"Why?" he echoes, as he comes to cage her in by the table. The harsh, overhead lighting does wonders for the definition of the bones in his face. After extracting the knife he's only just carefully discarded, he'd removed his jacket, soon followed by his vest and shirt, until only an undershirt remains, thin and black and stretching down over his shoulders and –

"Sorry, what?"

Killian smiles, leaning down until she can feel his belly against hers, warm through the thin material of his shirt. He brushes her loose hair over her shoulder. There's a terrible combination of lust and tenderness in the touch of his hand, flushing her cheeks further still. If the exertion of _breaking_ a whole bunch of crap hadn't set a sweat gathering over her brow, Emma imagines that the way his breath washes over her neck would be a good start.

"I _said_ ," he starts, knowing smile on his face, "that I'd do anything with you, Emma. Anything _for_ you. Haven't I proven that already?"

"You don't have to _prove_ anything."

Killian frowns, and leans even further. With no shoes to bolster her height, leaning back against the table, she's much shorter than him, even more so than usual. So he has to arch his back and spread his legs to put his eyes level with hers. And when he does, his fingers slip beneath her sweater, lifting until he can splay his hand over her ribs.

"But I want to," he answers, quietly. And Emma just can't take it anymore. Not the shirt he's wearing, or his mismatched socks. And _definitely_ not his hair, how wildly it's grown, unchecked in the wake of _new_ crises and _new_ villains. Like it's a sentient being just _waiting_ for its opportunity to run out of control.

It's natural, then, that when she grabs his face, and pulls him down to kiss him, that she should grab handfuls of said hair. Just as natural that he should do the same, and break apart so that he can pull her sweater over her hand, and toss it on the floor.

"Just to be _fair_ ," he says, into her mouth, nearly bending her over the table. Though she's already substantially beneath him, with the force of his mouth on hers, he pushes her back and kicks her legs apart. She can feel him through the fabric of his jeans, there between her legs, where his hips begin to rock.

"Wait a second," Emma says, when she breaks away to get a good look at his face, to see the black burning out the blue in his eyes. "How did we get _here_? Weren't we just destroying a bunch of appliances?"

"Emma Swan," he says, sounding terribly serious. "Do you have any idea how beautiful you are when you're angry and determined?"

"Do you?" he says, when she doesn't reply.

"Uh, no. Probably about as beautiful as _you_ are when you're hitting stuff with a hammer."

Killian laughs, and even as he leans back down to kiss her, to resume the rhythm he'd set up between her legs, he fumbles around behind her until he's holding said hammer in his hand. He makes a ridiculous, triumphant noise into her mouth, and she pulls back to laugh, cut short when he throws the hammer at the nearest hunk of metal and plastic.

"That's not how hammers _work_ , Killian!"

He rolls his eyes. "That was but a happy accident, my love, I just wanted to – "

To get her up on the counter, it seems, because that's exactly what he does, pushing away stray bits of debris so he can grind even harder against her, there on the table where they don't have to worry about slipper floors.

"Listen," Emma says. Though Killian pulls back, he pushes harder down against her, catching her clit and making her pant fiercely against his mouth, and pull roughly at his hair. She can't even remember what she was going to say, holding on to nothing other than the fact that she _needs_ him. Needs his long, untamable hair and the way he'll do anything with her and the shirts that he wears and his deep voice and his ridiculous face.

"Pardon, Swan," Killian says, voice straining in the wake of his want. On a particularly hard thrust, he arches his back, hair falling into his eyes. He pauses, then, seemingly overcome by the sensations. Emma doesn't relent, though, squirming beneath him until her blood begins to warm, settling heavily in her fingertips.

"What about my face is _ridiculous_?" he says, when he catches his breath.

"Ugh," Emma answers, falling back against the table and giving up on release, dampened as it is by at least three layers of clothing. "Can't you just pretend I'm not saying anything when we're having sex?"

"Well _first_ ," he starts. He pauses to pull her off the table, to lead her back to the chair he'd collapsed in not an hour ago. Killian sits, though he doesn't bid her to follow, instead pulling her foot up onto his knee. "I'm not sure that counts as sex. Second, I will cherish every unbidden word that falls from your lips."

Emma laughs. "Even if it's how stupid I think your hair is?"

"Nonsense, you love the little _flips_ , as you call them. This being one of the many things you've confessed while I'm inside you."

She concedes, if only because of the way his fingers trail down her leg, the tickling sensation while he tugs off her sock.

"You know Henry gets home in like an hour, right?" she says, though she helps him when he tugs similarly at her pants and underwear, until they lie forgotten at her feet.

"Aye, love, we'll be quick." He pauses, even as she opens his belt and tugs down his jeans, just far enough to expose him. "Unless you'd rather not?"

"Unless you'd rather not," she echoes, smiling gleefully while she maneuvers onto his lap. "My pants are gone and yours are down to your knees, I think we know where this is going."

Killian nods, and though he groans when her bare flesh brushes against his own, he stops her before she can continue, looking up at her with a sudden tenderness, the sort of gentleness that always catches in her throat. It's completely _ridiculous_ , as she's said. She's angrily dismantled just about every small appliance in the house. There are bits and pieces of them all over the place. His hook is still lying on the floor somewhere, his brace long since discarded on the kitchen counter. Despite all this, she's about to fuck him on the chair, and yet he looks at her like it's normal, like he wouldn't be anywhere else, like smash the cabinets with a baseball bat if she asked. It's all too much, the way he looks at her, the way his fingers dance over her wetness, and it puts the words into her mouth –

"Why do you love me as much as you do?"

Killian smiles, his fingers gentling between her legs. He tilts his head, shakes it when another tuft of hair falls into his eyes.

"I just _do_ , Swan," he answers. "To articulate it would be to do it a disservice. I love everything about you. I'd do _anything_ for you, certainly more than destroy a few pieces of technology to make you smile." He leans back, then, and catches her eyes with his, looking earnest and vulnerable when he says, "My demons haunt me from time to time too, Swan, for no other reason than to make themselves known, seems like. You walk alongside the water with me for hours on end, and don't make a single complaint, despite how cold your fingers always are when we return home. Don't you think I'd do the same for you?"

Emma nods, but she can't find it within herself to reply, at least not right away. And despite their intimate position, despite the slide of flesh against flesh when she finally sinks down onto him, the wet sound their lips make when she kisses him, she still blushes at his explanation. She imagined he might list it all out when she asked him why he loved her, might draw it into her skin with his tongue. But she replays his answer over and over in her mind – _I just do, I just do_ – and feels weightless, overwhelmed, unconditionally loved beyond her wildest dreams. And so, when she comes, and when he follows, she tells him in kind.

"I love everything about you too."

He smiles. "Even my hair?"

" _Especially_ your hair."

"I knew it."

* * *

Not an hour later, Henry walks through the door, and finds them sweeping up the mess. Screws and panels and bits of glass, filling up and entire trash bag set into the foyer, doubled up to avoid inevitable spillage. Killian greets her son brightly, humming as he tosses half the microwave door into the bags. Emma, on the other hand, looks terribly sheepish.

"Hey, kid."

Henry narrows his eyes.

"Hey," he answers her, slowly. He peers around her, and into the kitchen. Then into the living room, before looking back at her. She expects a litany of questions, figures she deserves it for losing her cool. But then –

"Hey, Killian," Henry says, tossing his things onto the couch before roaming into the kitchen to mow down another box of cereal. "Have you ever been to the mall?"

Killian quirks a brow. "Can't say that I have."

"Well, you need more than literally _one_ jacket. Like seriously. And apparently we need…a bunch of other stuff now. Let's go this weekend?"

Killian looks to Emma, then, to which she nods. Her heart swells, and with the last of the bits and pieces thrown away, Henry wordlessly hauling them out the front door with a mouth full of frosted flakes, she feels the shadows slip from her mind. They're sure to return, she knows, but certainly not tonight, not with the way the fire crackles to life, and the way her family settles around her.

"You okay, Mom?" Henry says, trying to look nonchalant.

"Yeah," she answers, truthfully. "Yeah, I'm great."

Henry nods, chewing slowly before he says, "Good."

"Aye," Killian echoes. "Good."

And it is.


End file.
